


my heart is beating the same

by nothingbutniall



Series: we were just kids [1]
Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Childhood Memories, F/M, Pictures, WTFock Season 2, babies in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-18 00:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19965508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutniall/pseuds/nothingbutniall
Summary: Zoë goes through her childhood pictures and finds... a picture of Senne?





	my heart is beating the same

**Author's Note:**

> I miss these two being soft together.
> 
> (Title comes from One Direction's Once In A Lifetime.)

The mattress dips when she puts the box of pictures down onto it, her life packed together on 4 by 6 inch glossy paper. She’d received the package the other day, her mother having fallen victim to the KonMari craze a few months ago. After decluttering the house itself, she’d recently moved on to the so-called _memento_ , all the sentimental items people used to put in boxes and store away in attics, until Marie Kondo came along.

Now, Zoë tries not to feel upset that her mother did not feel the need to keep the tangible memories of her first-born. She knows her mother has kept the photo albums, neatly organised books documenting Zoë’s younger years. The box contains a more unedited selection of pictures, overexposed scenes and blurry faces and snapshots nobody remembered taking.

Maybe this side of life has always been Zoë’s favourite, the unedited, raw footage telling an entire story in just one image. While her parents filled the living room with neatly hung, perfectly posed family portraits, Zoë framed pictures with her friends where they were laughing a little too much, moving a little too fast.

Once white, the years have yellowed the lid, speckling it with traces of dust. Zoë runs her finger along the label on the side, faded ink spelling ‘Zoë’. She hasn’t seen these pictures in years.

The bed dips behind her, Senne sitting down next to her, legs crossed. He just stepped out of the shower, wet hair sticking to his forehead, and Zoë brushes it aside, droplets of water sliding down her fingers. She wipes them off on the sheets and lifts the lid.

It’s a lot.

The entire box is filled to the brim, and she sees fragments from memories where the picture corners are sticking out.

On top is a picture of a sleeping baby, lips slightly open, little fingers curled into a fist. Zoë doesn’t have to check the back to know it’s her, just a few days old, asleep in her cod.

Senne coos, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Is that you?”

She nods. In the corner of the picture, she spots the duckling stuffie that now lives in her bedside drawer, looking a lot more worn. It’s the one thing that always travelled with her wherever her parents went.

“You look like an actual doll.” Senne slides his arm around her waist and smiles. “You still do that thing with your hand, you know. When you’re really tired.”

She smiles, too. She knows she does, because Senne always complains about her hoarding the blanket and clutching it too tightly for him to take it back.

The next picture was taken a few months later, showing Zoë in a frilly dress and a pair of pink sunglasses on her nose. Her cheeks are rosy, an open-mouthed smile revealing her first tooth. She looks like she could be in an ad for laundry detergent, the white dress absolutely spotless.

“Look at me being a little fashionista baby,” she laughs, tapping her finger on the sunglasses.

“Little diva, even then,” Senne teases, and she elbows him in the ribs, no real power behind the move.

There are more pictures – Zoë with her grandmother, Zoë on the beach, Zoë and another child on the neighbourhood playground, Zoë throwing a fit during bath time, Zoë hiding behind the curtains.

Despite the fact that it’s been years since she last saw these pictures, Zoë finds herself recognising most of them. She enjoys sharing her childhood stories with Senne, how she drove her parents mad trying to climb anything and everything, and preferably those things that were at least three times her height. How she didn’t care about clothes, but refused to wear anything other than her rain boots for three months straight. How the sound of clicking keyboards was more efficient at getting her to sleep than nursery rhymes.

She flips past a series of pictures of her sleeping in her father’s car and reaches one she can’t remember seeing before. It’s her as a toddler, dressed in a red velvet dress, sitting next to a young boy wearing a tuxedo, looking up at the camera mid-play, blocks scattered around them. There is a Christmas tree behind them, the twinkling lights casting a bokeh effect over the photo.

She wants to move along, but Senne stops her with a hand on her wrist. “No, wait.” His voice sounds soft, almost questioning. “Does it say anything on the back?”

Flipping the image over, she finds her mother’s writing: ‘Brussels, 2006’.

“Do you know that boy?” he asks.

Zoë looks beside her, frowning. She’s not sure why Senne seems so fixated on this particular photo. “No clue. Probably the son of one my parents’ friends.”

“It’s me,” he says, meeting her gaze, the same confused expression on his face.

Her eyes travel back down to the picture, trying to find the resemblance between the boy in shot and the boy next to her. Though his hair used to be more blond, the deep brown of his eyes hasn’t changed. At such a young age, the two extra years Senne’s got on Zoë mean his face is less baby and more boy. For the most part, the puppy fat has worn off, but there is some chub left on his cheeks, giving him a cherub look.

“I don’t get it.” She flips the picture again, inspecting the backside to see if there is anything else written.

“Me neither.” Senne runs a hand through his hair. “Does this mean our parents were friends?”

“I mean, I guess? Not anymore though, otherwise we would have known.” Knowing her parents, they met Senne’s parents either through work or their network, bonding with them over business plans and fitting in children in a busy schedule. She’s not surprised the friendship didn’t hold up; her parents tend to only invest in people if they are beneficial for them. They don’t really do casual acquaintances.

Zoë’s eyes land on faded writing, barely visible but just readable enough. ‘Christmas at De Smet’s. Zoë & Senne.’

She points it out to Senne and he traces the words with his finger. “Well. Seems like we already had the awkward meeting each other’s parents thing, huh?”

A laugh bubbles up in her throat. “The outfits are definitely appropriate for a good first impression. Look at your tie!”

“And your dress! I can barely believe that’s you, I’ve never even seen you in a dress.”

She grimaces. Her mother had put her in dresses and skirts from a very young age, and as a child, Zoë quickly learned that the best way to get her parents’ approval was to comply with their vision for her. It didn’t matter that she much preferred jeans she could run around in, if her mother bought her a designer dress, she’d wear it, deep down hoping that one day, her mother would actually take her shopping with her.

Now, the number of times she wears a dress in a year could be counted on one hand. “Not much of a dress girl, to be honest.” She shrugs. “Mostly special occasions, nowadays. Like prom.”

Senne kisses her cheek. “Or our wedding.”

She pushes him away, making him fall backwards onto the bed, and he pulls her down on top of him.

“If you joke about marriage one more time, I’ll divorce you before we even get married at all,” she tells him.

He pretends to zip his lips closed and throws the imaginary key over her shoulder. When she leans down to kiss him, she can feel his lips curl into a smile, but he keeps his mouth firmly closed until she nips at his bottom lip.

He bites back in retaliation and their tongues dance around each other, breaths coming faster. Zoë slides a hand down his chest and under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body under her fingertips.

The sheets rustle as they reposition, and then there is a loud bang as Zoë’s foot hits the box and accidentally tips it over the edge of the bed. Groaning, she buries her head in Senne’s chest, feeling the vibrations of his laugh.

She peeks at the floor for a second, pictures scattered everywhere, and decides she much prefers kissing Senne over cleaning up her mess, so that’s what she does.

The past comes later.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated!  
> Find me on Twitter: @nothingbutniall.


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